My father would drink

salt water,

take one breath and

disappear under the

waves for
minutes at a
time
and
surface with

conch shells,

silver fishing lures,
and

other trinkets

thought lost to sea.

He would pull us,

his children,

in a rubber raft he'd

found adrift,

holding the rope with

clenched teeth while

his swimmer's build of
triangular sinew

led us out beyond

the bobbing white and

orange buoy,

Powerful with every

stroke and

he'd lean back to

dip his hair in

the salty mass,

throw back his head

and smile--

bright flat teeth

and pure slick

divinity.

No man so powerful

could launch us

feet into the air,

screaming with

glee and fear before

our bodies slapped the
brisk,

salty fresh brine.

No man like Father,

born of water and

salt and

grace.